Page 31 of The Devil of Downtown

“Stay,” I growl, the roughness of my voice surprising even me.

“I should go,” she repeats, one foot already out the door.

“That didn’t stop you last time.”

Her brow pinches. “What?”

“Watching,” I grit out. “You enjoyed every second of that.”

Irritation flashes in her gaze before she spins and storms off.

I don’t know what the hell’s got into me, but I spring to my feet, chasing her down. She breaks into a half jog as she pushes through to the pool, flinging her towel on a lounger and wading into the water like the stubborn mule she is.

I’ve officially lost my mind for this woman as I wade in after her with only the small towel around my waist protecting my modesty.

“What are you doing? Stop following me.” She looks over her shoulder, forehead furrowed, jaw on the ground.

She shrieks as I close the distance, caging her against the pool’s edge, gripping her waist firmly.

“You’re crazy,” she breathes.

“Seems that way.”

Her chest rises fast, breaths quick and shallow. I slide a hand up to her jaw, my thumb brushing the corner of her mouth. She doesn’t move. Doesn’t push me away. Her lips part slightly, eyelids flickering as my thumb drags over her lower lip.

“You know,” I murmur, “of all your talents, I didn’t think voyeurism would be one of them.”

Her eyes narrow. “It’s not.”

Her eyes dart down to the massive tent jabbing insistently against her thigh, barely concealed by the flimsy wet towel.

“Then maybe stop staring,” I say, voice quiet.

“Ugh, will you put thatthingaway.”

My grin deepens. “You didn’t seem to mind when you were drooling over it yesterday.”

Color flares in her cheeks. “I was not—”

I step in closer, water rippling between us. Her back presses against the tiles as I lift a hand to her cheek, brushing away a droplet that wasn’t there a moment ago. Her skin is warm under my palm.

“You know what I think?” My breath grazes her temple, my lips close enough for her to feel the words. “I think you liked it. Just like you like this.”

Her breath catches as my fingers drift down, tracing the strap of her bikini. I hook it with a finger, tugging just enough for the fabric to stretch over her taut nipples before letting it snap back. She flinches, but not from fear. My thumb brushes her nipple, so lightly it’s almost a question. I hold it there, keeping my eyes on her face, waiting for the pull-back that doesn’t come.

Oh, she likes it.

Her eyes flutter closed. I watch her throat move as she swallows, lips parting like she’s forgotten how to breathe.

“Still going to tell me you don’t like it?” I murmur.

Her fingers come up, uncertain, catching at my shoulders as if to steady herself. The move pulls her closer, her body brushing mine, slick skin meeting slick skin.

I drop my hand to her waist, tracing the line of her hip with my thumb. She exhales, a small, shaky sound that goes straight to my cock—as if it needs any further encouragement.

Her lashes lift, and for a second, neither of us moves. Then I tilt her chin up, our mouths so close her next breath mingles with mine.

“Tell me to stop,” I breathe.